


All I Need Is a Second Chance

by VagrantWriter



Series: Second Chances [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-11 05:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3316067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robb tries to recover from the events of the Red Wedding while Theon continues his quest for redemption. Robb's not sure who he can trust anymore, but at least Theon's trying harder than most to make it up to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

“Who sends a message to a dead man?” Theon rolled over on the cot as Robb unfolded the letter. With that smile, one could easily think the man had never taken anything seriously in his life.

Robb didn’t feel like being goaded into an argument again. Apparently, the official story coming out of the Twins was that their treason had been successful and the King in the North had lost his head during an ambush at his own wedding. Arya had seen the body. No word on how the Freys had managed to get a wolf’s head, but she’d seen right away that it was too small to be a Grey Wind’s. So, Robb was officially dead in the eyes of the Lannisters, and while Theon favored a show of strength to prove that they was very much alive, Catelyn favored lying low and using this turn of events in their favor.

It was beside the point as Robb unfurled the parchment. It was curious, though, how someone had managed to find him to send a raven. A dead man indeed.

“It’s for you,” he said, turning.

Theon sat up in bed, the furs sliding down to his waist to reveal his bare skin. “Me?”

Robb handed the letter over. Theon read it out loud.

 

_To the King in the North, or whatever rubbish you go by these days._

_I trust that you’ve honored your word to not behead my idiot brother, in which case I can also trust you to pass word along to him. Our father is dead. Slipped from the bridge in a storm. His bones are resting in the Drowned God’s domain, if not his Halls._

_And while I’m sure the loss is very near to dear Theon’s heart, the reason I’m truly writing is to let you know that, in his absence, a King’s moot has been called. I, myself, have put myself forth as a candidate, and I do not intend to let my uncles wrest the Iron Islands from my grip. I have a bargain for you and for Theon. We might be able to benefit each other._

_Asha Greyjoy_

_Queen of the Iron Islands_

 

“What’s a King’s Moot?” Robb asked.

Theon didn’t answer at first, only stared at the letter. “When did you tell Asha you weren’t going to behead me?”

“When we left Riverrun.”

“You’ve been in contact with her?”

“Just the one letter.” Robb didn’t know why he felt so defensive. “If my brother were alive when I thought him to be dead, I’d like to be told.”

Theon clamped his jaw shut at that and went back to studying the letter.

“What’s a King’s moot?” Robb repeated.

“They’re going to hold a conference to determine who has best claim to the Driftwood Crown.” His fingers dug into the furs. “It’s me. I’m the last surviving son. Asha can’t rip that out from under me. Not this time.”

“Who else has claim?”

“My uncles, I suppose. Aeron won’t be considered. He’s the youngest and a religious fanatic at that. But he’ll try to sway the vote. Euron is the oldest, but I’d heard he’d gone insane. Victarion probably has the best chance, in my absence.” He shook his head, as if he’d become distracted. “Anyway, I’m the rightful heir. When I show up, they’ll _have_ to choose me.”

“ _When_ you show up?”

“To the King’s moot. I’ve got to be there, Robb. Imagine if your bannermen chose to give Winterfell to Sansa over you. You wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Theon…” Robb rubbed the back of his neck as he tried to think of a delicate way to put this. “Are you _sure_ they’d choose you?”

“What are you talking about? Of course they would. I’m the heir. That’s why your father took me as a hostage in the first place, isn’t it?”

“But didn’t they…already choose Asha…over you? Isn’t that why you’re here now, with me? Because your own men turned on you?”

He knew realization had set in when Theon became like a kicked dog, like he hadn’t seen the blow coming. But at least he didn’t try to argue it. He sat there, breathing through his nose, fists clenching and unclenching in the furs, for several seconds until at last his shoulders slumped. “Ingrates.”

“Would you like to have a raven sent to Pyke?”

Theon fell back onto the cot and pulled the furs up over his head. “Do whatever you want, Stark.”

“Aren’t you a bit curious to see what her proposition is?”

“I really don’t care what the bitch has to say.”

“I think you’re being a bit harsh on her.” Robb sat down on the pallet and ran his hand over Theon’s form beneath the covers. “She must care for you to have come all the way to Winterfell to bring you back. And if it weren’t for her, I never would have seen you again.”

“Perhaps you’d be better off.”

“We both know that’s not true. I’d be dead. And so would you, like as not. Won’t you at least give her the benefit of the doubt?”

“You seem awfully eager to trust her.”

“Well, I am rather short on allies at the moment. I’ll send a raven telling her I’m willing to hear her conditions, but I’ll need you to advise me. You Ironborn can be an unpredictable lot.”

Theon groaned.


	2. Chapter 2

Weddings were the curse of the day, and Theon had had more than enough of them. It had all started downhill very quickly with Robb’s announcement: “Theon should marry Arya.”

Arya was not present for their private meeting, but Catelyn raised enough objection in her stead. “Never.” She made a cutting motion in the air with her hand, as if taking off someone’s head. “I won’t allow it.”

“We should tie our Houses together,” Robb defended. “Theon is still technically the heir to the Iron Islands, and now that Balon is dead, we can finally form a proper alliance.” He gave Theon a meaningful look, a hint of a smile. “The way it was always supposed to be.”

“If you think I’m letting that man anywhere near any of my children—”

 _I wonder if she knows how close I already am to_ one _of her children._

“I agree with Cat,” Theon spoke up, causing both heads to swivel in his direction. “It’s not that I don’t want to join our Houses, but I rather value my cock and don’t see Arya letting me keep it if you insist upon such a union.” Although, Arya and Asha might make formidable good-sisters.

Catelyn clicked her tongue in disapproval.

“Who, then?” Robb asked. “Sansa’s been married off to the Lannisters. I swear, when I ride into Kings Landing, I will personally take the Imp’s head for what he’s done to my sister, but that doesn’t give us much leverage at the moment.” He sighed and looked from Theon to Catelyn. “I hate to suggest it, but…”

“No,” they said together, both launching into their own protestations.

“I will _not_ have Theon Greyjoy take your father’s place. I hope he’s not listening right now to hear you even _suggest_ such a thing.”

“I’m not marrying some dried-up old cunt.”

Catelyn swung around and struck him with an open palm.

Objectively, he supposed, she’d be a fine match, politically, and was still quite attractive, with several more child-bearing years left. And she had quite some force behind her blow, for a woman, and his face was left stinging. But Theon wouldn’t marry a woman who’d hated him long before he’d even given her reason to.

“Stop it, the two of you!”

“Gods,” Theon said, nursing his cheek. “If you’re that keen on joining our Houses, why don’t _you_ marry Asha?”

Robb opened his mouth, closed it, and then seemed to think about it. “Do you think she’d be agreeable?”

“No, but fuck it. _I’m_ Lord of the Iron Islands and she’ll do what _I_ say.”

Robb’s lip quirked in a way that suggested he very much doubted that. “I will send a raven to gage her receptibility.”

Catelyn shook her head but said nothing. Of all possibilities, this one seemed the least contentious.

After an appropriate amount of silence, Robb continued. “Our next priority is Sansa.”

“Petyr told me she was fine.” Catelyn leaned her forehead on her knees. “He _promised_ me that Sansa and Arya were fine and safe in Kings Landing. But Arya…” She wrung her hands, perhaps remembering the harrowing tale her youngest daughter had told of her months on the road.

“Be honest,” Theon said, “who here is surprised Littlefinger is a lying sack of shit?” Hells, he’d never even _met_ the man, but he’d heard enough.

“Reports indicate he isn’t even in Kings Landing anymore,” Robb said. “He’s in the Vale.”

“Whispering his lies into Lysa’s ears.” Catelyn’s knuckles grew white as she clenched fistfuls of her skirts. “He left her there. He _left_ my Sansa there in the middle of the lions. If he thinks to talk his way out of this one…” She shook her head. “Not this time. _Not_ this time.”

“Mother—”

She stood abruptly. “I’ll ride for the Eyrie.”

“Mother, you can’t.”

“I can. If word has travelled fast enough, Petyr might very well think I’m dead. He’ll be grieving, in his blackened little heart, and he’ll be at his most vulnerable. I must take advantage of that vulnerability.”

That didn’t sound like a good plan to Theon. Littlefinger was an obvious opportunist, as one would expect from a man of such common roots. But he was ultimately harmless. He didn’t have the backing of even a minor house, let alone anyone of influence. Let the man lock himself away in the stone womb they called the Eyrie.

“Will you leave Arya,” Robb asked, “now that you’ve so recently found her?”

That silenced Catelyn for the moment, though Theon suspected the matter was far from settled.

“What of Joffrey?” he asked to bring the matter back to the weddings. “The royal cunt’s set to marry a Tyrell girl, right? You join the Tyrells with the Lannisters and that’s it. The two wealthiest families in the Seven Kingdoms… No ally you get is going to topple that.”

“ _Thank you, Theon_ ,” Robb ground out, “for reminding me. We haven’t come up against much in the way of the Tyrell forces, but they’ve doubtless been supplying the Lannisters’ army already. So…what do we do about that?”

Theon shrugged. “Sour their alliance. Stop the wedding.”

“How?”

“Keep them occupied. You see, _this_ is why you should let Joffrey know you’re alive. The minute he thinks he’s won is the minute he starts thinking with his dick. ‘I’ll make the Tyrell bitch my Queen. After all, she’s got a perfectly lovely cunt to sink my royal prick into.’”

“Could you…not talk like that in front of my mother?”

“I’ve heard worse,” Catelyn sniffed. “But I think it’s wiser to stay your hand, Robb.” She drummed her fingers over her lips. “I…wouldn’t suggest this otherwise, but perhaps it’s the best way to bring a swift resolution to this conflict.”

They looked at her expectantly.

“Joffrey thinks you’re dead. He’ll be off his guard. That will be the time to strike.”

“Strike…?” Robb’s eyes went wide as the implication sank in. “Assassination?” he asked, looking horrified at the suggestion. “Mother…I can’t. If Joffrey dies, it will either be by my own hand or else in the siege of the city. Honor—”

“You won’t consider it?” Catelyn cut him off. “Even if it means getting your sister out of there? _Even then_? You refused to trade for her before and _now_ look what’s happened. The Imp had my daughter. The _Lannisters_ have my daughter. We could have—”

“I’ll do it.”

Everyone looked up as the tent flap opened and Arya stood as a particularly unthreatening silhouette against the sunlight streaming in.

“I’ll kill Joffrey.”

Stunned silence for a beat or two. Then Theon burst out laughing and Catelyn ran to her daughter.

“Oh, Arya, no.”

“Why not? I’ve already killed plenty of men, just as the Hound. I’ll kill the Queen for you, too. And the Imp. With Needle.”

“Who’s Needle?” Theon asked.

She leveled her eyes on him, and for a brief moment, he was terrified of the girl he’d always teasingly called Arya Underfoot. She hadn’t been pleased to learn that he’d taken Winterfell and driven her brothers out. Apparently she held him in the same esteem as Catelyn did. Not good.

“You’re lucky you’ve got Robb,” she said, still watching him, “or I’d put your name on my list too.”

“Your list?” he joked, regaining himself. “Of people you’re going to kill?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Joffrey, Cersei, Ilyn Payne, Meryn Trant, the Mountain, the Hound, the Imp…Theon Turncloak.”

 

***

 

“I see what you mean about your cock,” Robb said as they left their private meeting. “If it puts you at ease, _I_ value your cock too much to risk marrying you to my sister.”

“Thank you,” Theon muttered.

“In fact, I think it’s best I separate you two. Theon, how do you fancy a trip?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Tyrion, you're not going to catch a break with the Starks either.


	3. Interlude 1

Robb and Theon left headed northeast with a small contingency of men. Catelyn wished them well and gave them a full day’s start before setting out on her own.

Early in the morning, before most of the camp were up, she kissed a sleeping Arya on the forehead and stole from the tent. The sun had not even risen yet as she made her away across the field to where they were currently keeping Sandor Clegane. He was a light sleeper, apparently, because he bolted up as soon as she entered the holding pen. His face was as ugly as ever, but he didn’t look so intimidating chained hand and foot.

He glowered at her as she produced a small bag of coins and threw it to him. “Payment,” she said, “for bringing my daughter back to me.”

“’Bout bloody time,” he muttered. “Now, would you do something about this?” He held up his chained hands.

“You no longer work for the Lannisters?” she prodded. She didn’t doubt there was little love lost between the Hound and the Lannisters, but she needed to be sure.

“Piss on that,” he answered. “The King can go fuck himself.”

Brave words for a man who had admitted to running away in the heat of battle.

She folded her arms over her chest and regarded him. “Where do you plan to go?”

“Away.”

“You’ll need more money.” She straightened her back and looked him in the eye. “How much do you need to escort me from here to the Eyrie?”

 

***

 

“She absconded with _another_ prisoner.” Maege Mormont shook her grizzled head.

Arya sat poking at the camp rations before her. It was probably better than anything she’d had in months, but her stomach just wasn’t up to it. She was thinking.

It wasn’t just that Robb and her mother had left her again, but that they expected her to stay behind. As if she were a helpless little girl. As if she hadn’t staged the escape from Harrenhal. As if she hadn’t killed Poliver and taken Needle back. As if she hadn’t learned water dancing from the First Sword of Braavos and bargained with a faceless assassin who worshipped Death.

“I don’t know what she expects me to do with you,” Maege went on.

“May I be excused?”

Maege gave her a noncommittal shrug, so she pushed her plate away.

Arya returned to the tent she’d been sharing with Roslin Frey and, just recently, with her mother. Roslin was brushing out her own hair as Arya entered.

“Aren’t you going home?” Arya asked peevishly.

“It’s too dangerous at the moment.”

“I’d go home if I could.” Arya reached under her cot to where she kept Needle. “No matter how dangerous.”

Roslin remained silent.

Arya found Needle and attached it to her side. “Can you do something for me?”

Roslin turned around.

“Wait to tell Maege I’ve gone.”

“Gone where?”

“To Kings Landing.” She patted the small sword at her belt. “To Joffrey’s wedding.”


	4. Chapter 4

“I don’t think your men appreciate my being here,” Theon said.

Robb glanced behind, and several men riding at the back averted their gaze, though not fast enough to miss the disdainful looks on their faces.

“Not that I blame them,” Theon went on. “I may have ordered their family members killed when I took Winterfell.” His eyes went to that faraway place they always did when he spoke of what he’d done. There was genuine remorse there, but also something else Robb couldn’t identify. Something like shame, but not quite that either. “Are you sure you want me with you when you treat with Stannis?”

“I’d rather have you than anyone else,” Robb replied easily. “If anyone objects to your presence, they can either take it up with me or hold their tongues.” He wasn’t immune to the general disgruntlement some of his men showed to Theon being out of chains, but he was tired of justifying his actions. That was supposed to be _the_ perk of being King—nobody got to question your actions.

He was under no delusions that Stannis would allow him to keep his campaign of a free and independent North. Stannis would accept nothing less than all Seven Kingdoms recognizing his claim, no matter how desperate he was for allies. And all indications said he _was_ desperate for allies after his defeat at Blackwater. The letter Robb had received in response to his entreaty had been too carefully worded to be anything _but_ desperation. He hoped to monopolize on that desperation.

They were fairly desperate themselves. The Bolton forces had not made up an overly large portion of his army, but their loss—and outright betrayal—had struck a major blow to his troops’ morale. Add in the fact that the North was now divided against itself and the presence of the Ironborn still causing havoc—latest word was they held both Moat Cailin and Deepwood Motte—and it seemed Robb had already lost his right to call himself King in the North.

Still, he must not act the green boy and give in to Stannis’s demands. Not right away. They were meeting as equals, even if they were not to part as such.

They left their horses when the terrain became too steep and rocky to continue that way. The cliffs down to the water were treacherous, barren, and with nothing to take cover behind should they be attacked.

“You should have made Stannis climb to meet you,” Theon said, clutching tightly to the boulders to steady himself.

“Stannis already has to come around the point by boat,” Robb answered back. “We will be there to meet him when he lands, as a sign of good faith.”

“What if he brings what’s left of his army and picks us off from the water?”

“He won’t. Stannis is a man of honor.”

“I don’t know,” Theon grumbled. “I heard he killed his own brother using black sorcery. You can’t trust a man like that. Even _I’m_ not a kinslayer.”

“Depends on your definition of the word kin,” someone muttered from behind.

Theon was silent the rest of the way down.

 

***

 

A thick mist hung out over the Bay of Crabs as Robb and his men waited on the shore. Theon cursed Stannis and wished he’d hurry up. The beaches were made of sharp rocks and bits of broken shell, and there was nowhere comfortable to sit. His legs were sore from using unfamiliar muscles to hike down the Cliffside. The smell of salt on the air for some reason reminded him of his drowning back on Pyke. He hugged himself against the chill of the fog and waited.

Eventually, a faint beam of light appeared bobbing in the mist and one of Robb’s men shouted the alarm. A single rowboat appeared, Stannis himself at the bow, lantern held aloft. Among all the gray-clad figures aboard, a single splash of red stood out among them. Theon had initially laughed at Catelyn’s tale of the Red Woman’s dark magic, but now that the priestess herself was staring straight at him, he felt a shudder run up his spine.

They landed, and one of Robb’s men rushed to help the Red Woman onto the beach.

“Your Grace,” Robb said with a cordial nod to Stannis.

“Lord Stark,” he returned, not bothering with a nod at all. “We’re here to negotiate the terms of your surrender.”

“ _We’re here_ ,” Robb corrected, “to negotiate the terms for a mutually beneficial alliance.”

Stannis breathed in sharply through his nose. “If you will not recognize my rightful claim to the Iron Throne, then we have nothing to discuss.”

“No one is disputing your claim,” Robb said.

“And yet you call yourself King in the North.”

“Which is what we’re here to negotiate.”

They faced off against each other. Robb was not the man of stone that Stannis was, but he could cut a rather intimidating figure when he wanted to. Especially over the last year, he’d shot up and broadened out at the shoulder. He certainly wasn’t a boy anymore.

_Good_ , Theon thought. _Don’t back down._

“Give me your terms,” Stannis said, “and I’ll consider them.”

Robb didn’t hesitate. “Reinstall me as Warden of the North and take no penalties against my family or my bannermen. Do this, and the North will bend the knee and back your claim to the Throne.”

“And you? _You_ will bend your knee to me?”

“I will.”

Stannis’s face gave nothing away, though his next question did. “How many men do you have at your disposal?”

“I imagine more than you do after your latest campaign.”

Stannis did bristle at that. “Then why do you need my help?”

“Because I’m fighting a war on two fronts, Your Grace. My dream is for a free and independent North, but, failing that, I would have the North ruled by those who have ruled over it for thousands of years. You ask that I recognize your claim to the Throne. I ask that you recognize my family’s claim to the North.”

Silence. Waves lapped against the shore. A gull’s call carried through the fog.

The Red Woman, standing to Stannis’s left, leaned towards him and whispered into his ear. He listened intently.

“Very well, Lord Stark,” he said at last. “I recognize your fealty to my cause. You will bend the knee and we will join forces. I do, however, have a final caveat.” His eyes slid to Robb’s right, where Theon was standing. “Him.”

Robb tensed.

“He will come back to Dragonstone with us.”

“No,” Robb said flatly. “Why? What do you want with Theon?”

“Theon Greyjoy is the son of Balon Greyjoy, is he not?” Stannis answered. “The imposter who calls himself King of the Seastone Chair?”

“If you’re accusing Theon of being a traitor—”

“You are all traitors,” Stannis said flatly. “It is by _my_ good will alone that I _allow_ you to _beg_ to apologize. You should count yourself lucky that my only other request is that you hand that man over to me.”

Robb took a step to the right, putting himself between Theon ad Stannis. “And this is not negotiable. Theon stays with me.”

“So be it,” Stannis snarled. “You have dug your own grave, Robb Stark.” He turned his back on them, dismissing them.

“You should not let them go,” the Red Woman hissed, loud enough for Theon to hear. “If Robb Stark will not willingly give your King’s blood, you must take it. From _him_.”

“Silence, woman,” Stannis commanded. “This is politics. You would do well to know your place.” He looked over his shoulder at Robb. “You are free to go, Lord Stark. When next we meet, it will be on opposite sides of the battlefield.”

Theon was a bit shaken as they began their ascent back up the cliff. “You threw away an alliance for me,” he called after Robb. “Why?”

He couldn’t see Robb’s face, but he could hear his mirthless laugh. “I wouldn’t give _Joffrey_ to the Red Priestess, let alone my best friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'd give Joffrey to Melissandre.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of sex at the beginning of this chapter, but nothing too graphic.

Later that night, in the privacy of Robb’s tent, they made love for the second time. Theon had been preparing for bed when Robb had sat up on the pallet they shared, turned big blue eyes on him, and asked, “Theon, teach me how to suck your cock?” Well, how could he refuse a request like that?

He’d demonstrated on Robb—another new experience, but he’d had enough lips wrapped around his own cock that he was pretty sure he had the gist of it—then had Robb demonstrate what he’d learned. The boy needed a bit of practice, but Theon didn’t complain. How could he when he looked for pretty on his knees like that? Besides, Theon probably needed practice too; Robb just didn’t have anything to compare it to.

It was different this time. Their first time had been in the wake of an escape, full of adrenaline and post-battle lust. This was slower as they mapped each other out with tongues and fingers. Robb had tears in his eyes afterwards.

“What’s wrong?” Theon cupped his cheek. Robb was having second thoughts, he just knew it. He regretted setting Theon free, just like he regretted losing his virginity in the heat of passion to someone he could not marry, someone he could not “make honest.” In his honor-bound Stark mind, this was probably the equivalent of committing adultery by being unfaithful to some hypothetical future wife.

“That woman wanted to take you away from me.” Robb blinked and a tear broke free from his lashes to slide down his cheek. “I would have killed her if she tried. An unarmed woman.”

Oh, well that…

“You shouldn’t have burned your bridges with Stannis.”

“We don’t need him. Not as badly as he needs us. And even if we did, I wouldn’t let him have you. You’re _mine_.” He gave a long, lingering kiss with his swollen lips. “And I’m yours.”

They lay still for a few moments.

“Do you have a plan, then?” Theon asked.

“The most important thing is to retake the North and rebuild Winterfell before winter comes. I hate to say it, but we will have to put off taking Kings Landing. In the meantime, neither the Lannnisters nor the Tyrells would dare follow us into the North with the winter so close. And if they try, they’ll see how well gold does against the cold.”

Theon nodded. “Then your next move is to treat with my sister?”

“She seemed open to an alliance in her letter.”

“I should warn you, then. Asha is not like Stannis. She is not a…person of honor. No Greyjoy is. If she doesn’t like what you’re offering, she’s just as soon to put her axe in your back as let you walk away.”

“I don’t think she will, though. I don’t think she’d risk getting you killed.”

“Be careful what you _don’t think_ ,” Theon said. “That’s most likely what Asha will do.”

 

***

 

They reached the marshes of the Neck several days later. It was difficult going with the horses, and Robb worried about getting even his twelve men past Moat Cailin undetected. The kraken banner flew from the highest tower and the Ironborn would be able to see them from miles away. Which wouldn’t be such a problem, except if Asha wasn’t among them, they’d probably shoot any approachers on sight. Robb had a solution to this.

“Are you sure you trust me to do this?” Theon asked uncertainly as he looked down at Robb from astride Smiler. He’d long been stripped of his kraken armor, along with any sigils of his family’s House, when he’d been taken as Robb’s prisoner; a white flag would be his plea for entreaty as he rode for the gates of Moat Cailin.

“I trust you,” Robb answered with a smile of unwavering confidence. “Just…come back to me, alight?”

Theon swallowed the remnants of his pride and spurred Smiler onwards. It was a great indignity to carry a flag of surrender to his own men, but if this was the only way to keep him from being shot at the moment he came into arrow range, so be it. The thing was, the Ironborn weren’t always known to respect a flag of peace.

No arrows came rushing at him, though, as he steered Smiler along the swampy path. The partial remains of a battle lingered: overturned wagons half-sunk in the mire, bodies preserved in lifelike conditions among the swamp’s pools, bits of colored cloth from standards dulled in the mud. Theon hoped Bran and Rickon hadn’t headed this way after leaving Winterfell. He seemed to remember two young Reed wards who might have possibly goaded them in this direction.

He came to the front gates unmolested and was finally hailed by a man from the battlements. “Halt! State yer name and business.”

Theon looked up at the man. A Humble by the look of his armor.

“Theon Greyjoy,” he called up. “Heir to the Iron Islands and _your_ Prince.”

“Liar. Prince Theon is dead.”

“Not dead, no. Taken prisoner by Robb Stark. He has sent me to entreat with you in good faith. Tell me, is my sister, Asha Greyjoy, here?”

“If you was really Theon Greyjoy, you’d know she’s back on Pyke.”

“I know of the King’s Moot, but I had thought the matter resolved already. It is nullified by my absence anyway.”

“In that case, why is _Prince Theon_ acting the lapdog to Robb Stark?”

“Careful how you address your Prince. I won’t tolerate insolence in my presence. I come on behalf of Robb Stark to request you let us pass. As a show of good will towards our new alliance.”

“I ain’t heard of no alliance.”

“How long have you been holed up in there?”

“Long enough.” The man spat over the side of the battlement. “Might be there’s an alliance. Might be there’s not.”

“Who’s in charge here?”

“That’d be Ralf Kenning, but he’s taken ill as of late. Nothing but rot and disease in this damned swamp.”

The Kennings served his mother’s House. They might be open to negotiation.

“I’ll speak with him,” Theon said. “Let me in.”

The man seemed to contemplate, in as much as he was able. He must have deemed Theon a non-threat, though, because he finally turned to someone just out of sight and said, “Lower the drawbridge.”

 

***

 

Theon came riding back at dusk, a smile on his face. “They’ll let us pass,” he said as Robb helped him down from his horse. “Hells, they’d be happy to let you have the fort. Disease has torn through their ranks. I think they’d abandon it entirely if they didn’t see it as running away. I told them that, in honor of our new alliance, you have given them leave to return home.”

“Good work,” Robb said, clutching him tight. He hadn’t really thought Theon would be harmed or he wouldn’t have sent him. Still, it was nice to have him back safe. “I’ll send a raven to Mother telling her to send the rest of the men. We’ll leave enough here to help us hold it.”

“What?” Theon said with mock incredulity. “You don’t want to stay and hold this lovely, pus-filled swamp?”

“No,” Robb said seriously. “We’re going to keep moving. You’re right. We need to let everyone know I’m alive. In a big way.”

“How big?”

“We’re going to gather our forces and march on the Dreadfort. We’re going to take back the North.”


	6. Interlude 2

“You seem a mite jumpy, m’lady.” Sandor Clegane was a member of the noble Riverlands Houses, but he certainly didn’t _speak_ like it. Catelyn shuddered to think of this foul man near her daughter—either of them. “Maybe you’re expecting me to try something…ungentlemanly.”

“First you’d have to start acting gentlemanly,” she said, looking straight ahead and not at him.

“I’m not the type to rape you,” he said bluntly. “I’m the type to rob you, slit your throat, and leave your body on the side of the road for _others_ to rape.”

Lovely.

“But then you wouldn’t get your payment,” she countered, still looking forward, “and you’d have escorted me halfway to the Bloody Gate for nothing.”

“Aye,” he grumbled. “I look forward to never seeing another Stark after this.”

They rode in silence a bit longer. There had not been much spoken between them since they’d set out. Despite this, Catelyn kept glancing at him out of the side of her eye. There was something she wanted to ask of this man who had served her daughter’s one-time fiancé.

“You must have seen my daughter as Kings Landing,” she finally said. “Sansa. Red hair, like mine? Tall for her age?”

“Aye, I saw the little bird a time or two.”

“Would you tell me, in all honesty, how she’s doing? Is she well?”

Clegane was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was still gruff, but there was a softer quality to it. “No,” was all he said. Was it pity in his voice? For her? For Sansa?

“Thank you,” Catelyn said, earning a confused look in her direction. “Your honesty doesn’t put my mind at ease, but I prefer it to all the pretty lies I’ve gotten as of late.”

He grunted, a small boy unused to compliments from pretty girls. Or maybe he was? “I hope you get to see the little bird again, m’lady,” he said, and there was no mistaking the hint of affection under that snarl.

 

***

 

Arya stayed off the Kings Road as best she could, remaining quiet and hidden at the first sign of approach. Roslin must have kept her word, because no one came for her.

She’d told Roslin she’d go home if she could, but truth be told, she’d been on the road so long, she wasn’t sure she could stop moving. For the thousandth time since leaving Robb’s camp, she reached for her Braavosi coin and felt it between her fingertips. She knew the face stamped onto it by touch alone as she repeated her mantra: “Cersei, Joffrey, Ilyn Payne, Meryn Trant, the Mountain, the Hound, the Imp…”

She still hadn’t decided whether to put Theon’s name on her list. He’d killed Mikken, the blacksmith who’d crafted Needle. He’d taken Bran and Rickon hostage—it made her proud that they had resisted and outwitted him, little accomplishment thought _that_ may be. He might not have burned Winterfell himself, but he’d _allowed_ it to be burned. And yet, with all of that, Robb had taken him back. She couldn’t fathom it, but for the time being she’d trust her brother. Theon claimed that he wanted to make amends. Words were wind, but right now she had a more important task at hand.

The spire of the Red Keep came into view in the far distance. She felt for her coin again. “ _Valar morghulis_.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Well, well.” Asha tapped her fingers on the arms of her wooden throne. “The Young Wolf is alive and apparently in possession of his head. I’d heard some nasty news…after I sent my raven, of course.”

“Of course,” Robb agreed. “How could you have known the reports of my death had been greatly exaggerated?”

He hadn’t bowed and she hadn’t asked him to. The fact that her temporary seat of power at Deepwood Motte towered over them might have been intimidating if they didn’t have a whole troop of Manderly forces backing them up, two for each of her Ironborn warriors, if Theon had to guess. Just like Moat Cailin, they were running on a skeleton crew, though probably due more to Asha’s efficiency rather than plague and starvation.

“I’m glad to see you’re back from Pyke, sister,” he said with a slight, ingratiating bow. “I take it the King’s Moot did not go in your favor.”

She scowled. “Uncle Euron has claimed temporary victory. But now that you’ve raised your head again, dear brother, his victory has been nullified. So I thank you for that, at least.”

“Lady Asha—” Robb began.

She held up a hand to stop him. “Asha will suffice.”

“Asha,” he amended, “you spoke, in your letter to me, of a proposition.”

She leaned back in her chair and crossed one leg over the other, as if they were playing a casual game of strategy. Theon wanted to yell at her to show Robb the proper respect. Didn’t she understand her position?

“Very well. I’ll be blunt. My brother is not fit to rule. The most he could hope for is a puppet kingship.”

Theon bristled.

“With _you_ pulling the strings?” Robb asked.

She scoffed and waved his suggestion away. “I have no interest in controlling my brother. Ever since the day you took him away, _I_ have been trained to take control of the Seastone Chair. I may be a woman, but I consider it my birthright and no other’s.”

“Liar!” Theon fumed. “It’s mine and you know it.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling like a cat, “ _you_ and your _great love_ for our people. So great that you abandon us to go running back to Robb Stark like a whipped cur with your tail between your legs.”

“Watch your mouth.”

Not that his warnings ever did any good with her.

“Every man, woman, and child on the Iron Islands know where your loyalties lie, Prince Theon. Just like everyone knows _who_ you lie _with_.”

“Enough!” A Manderly guard stepped forward. Robb had barely crossed into the North when they’d come running from White Harbor, eager to see if the news was true—the King in the North had returned. “I will not listen to your insinuations about King Robb.”

“My, my, who said anything about _King Robb_?” Asha put her hands into the air, as if in surrender. “But perhaps that was a bit out of line. I only meant to make my stance known. _You_ want an independent North; _I_ want an independent Iron Islands. I suggest we can have plenty of time to war with each other once our respective goals are met. In the meantime, we should call a temporary truce, join together, and loudly tell those Southron cunts to go fuck themselves.”

“Join together?” Robb asked.

“Krakens by sea, wolves by land. In your words, ‘Winter is coming.’ The South cannot hope to conquer us, not united. And once winter sets in…” She gave a nonchalant shrug. “Well, you and I need only keep them at bay that long.”

“And then?”

“And then?” She threw her head back and laughed. “And then we go back to killing each other, I imagine. Are you disappointed I’m not offering more permanent alliance?”

“Why not? We could join our Houses.”

“The Greyjoys will not be subjugated by the Starks, the Lannisters, or anybody else. As for husbands, this…” She pulled out her axe, “is my lord husband, and this…” She unsheathed the dagger from her side, “is my suckling babe.”

Oh, seven hells, she’d done the thing with the axe.

“If you would join our Houses, marry my brother to one of your pretty sisters. Although I hear you are fast running out of sisters.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Robb took a step forward. The Ironborn tensed and drew their weapons, and the Manderlys responded in kind.

“Easy,” Asha said to her men. To Robb she said, “I only meant that your older sister’s wedding to the Imp is well-known and…this is just a rumor that’s been passed on to me…” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Some of our number report hearing that your other sister is preparing for a wedding of her own.”

“I’m not here to discuss rumors,” Robb said. “I will accept your proposal on several conditions. One, you will surrender Deepwood Motte and any other Northern strongholds.”

“Done,” she said. “They were easy enough to take in the first place. We can take them again.”

“Two, you must cease hostilities against all of my men, their lands, and their smallfolk. Any Ironborn are to be out of our territories by the next new moon.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Asha answered. “We are not as centralized as your folk. However, I will grant that any Ironborn caught raiding your territory after the new moon are yours to do with as you see fit. They are no longer under the protection of our banner.”

Theon wondered what good that would do. Asha might very well send the word out, but likely she didn’t expect to be obeyed. More likely, she expected the Ironborn to resist and pick off a few of the Starks’ forces when they tried to do anything about it. She was playing both sides, rather shamelessly so. Robb had better have a good final condition if he hoped to come out on top of this alliance.

“Thirdly, I want collateral. I want you. To ensure you maintain your end of the bargain.”

That silenced her. She stared at him as if he’d started sprouting fut.

“If you’re serious in this endeavor,” Robb went on, undeterred, “you will be my willing hostage. In return, I will help you gain control of the Iron Islands, and then we will forge a more permanent alliance.”

Asha’s jaw twitched. “I’m offering this to you in good faith, Stark.”

“As am I.”

She stood.

“Careful, Lady Asha, my men outnumber yours.”

“One Ironborn warrior is worth five of your greenlander soldiers.”

“We can force you out of here, but I’d rather this not end in bloodshed. I’d rather there not be _any_ spilled blood between our Houses. At the moment, we have a common enemy. If not the Lannisters, then the Boltons. Did you know that Roose Bolton spoke with pride of his men flaying the Ironborn soldiers he caught in his woods?”

Asha’s eyes narrowed.

“You can continue fighting us, for all the good it’s done you so far. Or you can accept these terms for a proposal _you_ brought forth.”

She sank, defeated, into her chair. Theon savored it. The woman who’d chided him for, among other things, being a hostage to the Starks would have to become one herself is she hoped to gain the Seastone Chair.

“I accept,” she said at last, “but I will not bow. And you must put me on the throne at Pyke before you presume to give us orders.”

“I presume nothing,” Robb said. “We shall be equals in this matter.”

“How very magnanimous of you.”

Robb tilted his head, considering that. “You wish to regain your birthright?” He spread his hands out, palms up. “I wish to regain mine.”

Theon wondered where that left him.

 

***

 

He was running. Chasing something. Hunting.

He’d missed hunting in the Wolfswood. It was like coming home. The rabbit was wounded and on its last legs. Grey Wind’s nose could smell the end was near as he chased it through the underbrush.

He was closing in when the snapping of a branch caused Grey Wind to jerk his head up. The rabbit scurried into some thorny bushes, but it was not wise to continue the chase when there were other predators around. He crept into a thicket of trees and watched from their coverage as a human woman broke into the clearing, her hair tangled with branches, face streaming with tears. She was naked.

And making a lot of noise. She’d draw the predators straight to her. As she collapsed to the ground, several hunting dogs appeared and began tearing at her. The human woman screamed and fought back, but she soon disappeared amid a sea of frothing mouths and gnashing teeth. They only stopped when a loud whistle carried over the woman’s screaming.

Grey Wind lifted his head. More humans. Human men, four of them. They wore clothes.

The thickest of them came towards the woman, who sobbed. “You gave us quite the chase,” he said. Then he knelt down, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and yanked her head back. “Not because you were especially good at evading me. These aren’t my usual hunting grounds, so I’m still getting used to the land.”

The woman spat a blood globule into his face.

He laughed. So did the others. He turned to them. “What do you think, boys? Does that count as putting up a good fight? She _did_ lead us on a long chase, after all.”

“Too long,” one of the other men said. “At this rate, you’re like to skip your own wedding.”

“Hear that, bitch?” The leader, the alpha, shook the woman’s head. “You’ve made me late for my own wedding. My father will not be pleased to delay, and my bride! My poor bride, all eager for our wedding night. I’d make you beg Lady Arya’s forgiveness, but—”

“Fuck you,” the woman hissed, “and your whore mother. You’re a bastard. You’ll always _be_ a bastard. Your daddy saying otherwise won’t change that. Your marrying Arya Stark won’t change that. You—”

The alpha silenced her with a brutal punch to the face. She collapsed and he stood. “I guess that answers that question. Well, I’m already late, so what’s a few more hours teaching you your place?” He began to undo his belt.

Robb woke with a start. The woman’s screams still rang in his head.

Beside him, Theon groaned and rolled over. “What’s wrong?” He ran a hand over Robb’s chest. “Gods, you’re soaking wet.”

“I…” Robb put a hand to his throbbing head. “I haven’t had a dream like that in a while.”

“You were Grey Wind?”

He nodded. “I saw…” He didn’t want to think about what he’d seen. “I heard…that man…I think the Boltons have my sister.”

“Sansa?”

“Arya.”

“How could that be? She’s back in the Riverlands with your mother.”

“Unless…unless there was an ambush after we left. I haven’t heard word from Mother in several weeks. What if they’ve been captured? The man from my dream—he said he was going to _marry_ Arya Stark.”

“Who was he?”

_You’re a bastard._

“The Bastard of Bolton.”


	8. Interlude 3

Arya watched.

It had been an easy thing to sneak into the city, easier still to steal a serving boy’s uniform and begin serving the guests. And as she moved around, filling cups with wine from her pitcher, making her way slowly towards the dais, she watched Joffrey.

She watched and waited.

Sansa was seated up there as well. Her sister had changed since last Arya had seen her. Her face was gaunt, her eyes hollow and dark-ringed. It appeared she’d discovered the true Joffrey, too late. And by her side sat the Imp. His time would come soon. As Joffrey choked on his own blood courtesy of Needle’s blade, Arya would run the ugly little man through, grab Sansa, and disappear like a shadow. She just needed the right opportunity.

But then something unexpected happened.

Joffrey started choking. And she hadn’t even drawn her sword.

There was a great commotion when it became clear that the King couldn’t breathe. Arya watched as he writhed in Cersei Lannister’s arms, and she felt cheated. In the end, nobody escaped Death, but it was a pity she hadn’t been the one to deal it.

When the worst if it had settled, Sansa had disappeared.


	9. Chapter 9

Winterfell _had_ been burned. The smell of burnt timber clung in the air, even all these months later.

Theon had never thought to see it again, and certainly not in this state. It had never been an especially _lively_ place, all grim Northerness, but it had never been this still, either. Most of Winter Town was gone; only the outer wall still stood. Winterfell itself was largely intact on the outside, but one only had to step foot inside to see that most of the wooden support had been burned away. Several of the towers had crumbled away without their beams to hold them in.

There were people about, if you could call them people and not dead-eyed statues.

The soldiers were dressed in the colors of House Bolton, House Dustin, House Manderly—Theon fit in well with his Manderly escort from Deepwood Motte. Dressed down, he was able to go about business as if he belonged there, and most were happy to look straight through him. Although there _had_ been a tense moment when he’d had to duck quickly around a corner when he’d seen the Frey wards—Big Walder and Little Walder, he remembered, _little shits_ —coming down the hall.

“When I suggested you send someone,” Theon had told Robb before he’d left, “I didn’t mean _me_.”

“Well, since you’re so against me going…”

“Damned right I’m against you going. What if this whole thing is just a trap to flush you out? I wouldn’t put it past the Leech Lord. Isn’t his bastard already married anyway?” A half-remembered bit of conversation came back. “Yeah, Reek mentioned Lady Hornwood. I thought it was weird at the time. She’s so old. Maybe she died?”

“Who’s Reek?”

“Oh, he’s this…he was…it’s not important.”

Robb had put his hands on Theon’s shoulders then and looked him straight in the eye. “You’re the only one I trust to do this. If I send someone else in and they botch it, it could cost Arya her life.”

Theon protested. “If even just one person recognizes me, the whole thing will go up in smoke.”

“Nobody will recognize you because nobody will be looking for you. But Arya _will_ recognize you, and she’ll know I sent you to save her.” He’d leaned in close, then, and Theon could feel his breath ghosting across his lips. “It will be dangerous, of course. I wouldn’t request this of you if it wasn’t very important, but it _is_ still a request. You don’t have to do it. I may be the King, but you can refuse to do this.”

Did anyone ever refuse Robb Stark?

“What about Pyke?”

“We’ll wait for you.” He’d cupped Theon’s cheek, leaned in, and closed the space between them. Their lips met but for an instant, and then he was pulling away again. “ _I’ll_ wait for you.”

“Hey, you!”

Theon jumped, realizing he’d been lazy to let his mind drift. Now someone was waving him down. He’d been found out, so soon, and without even the Manderly soldiers who’d smuggled him in for support. Would the Boltons take him prisoner or simply flay his skin off and send it back to Robb?

“You gonna stand around with your jaw slack all day?” It was a woman with a soup ladle. He’d somehow wandered into the kitchens. A force of habit. He’d often come here when he was lonely; there was always some kitchen wench willing to fix that for him. The woman who came stomping towards him now was a crone easily two winters too old to cure anyone’s loneliness, though. Besides, she had a horrible snaggletooth. “I’ve got a job for you,” she said.

It took him a second to respond. He wasn’t used to taking orders from his lessers.

“Wha—oh, right.”

She beckoned him over to the table and jabbed an imperious finger at a silver tray. “Lord Bolton says that Lady Arya is to take her meals in her room. Her constant wailing is a great disruption at dinner, and it’s putting all our guests off their appetites.”

 _Wailing? Arya?_ Theon blinked, trying to reconcile those two ideas. He hadn’t seen Arya cry since she was seven years old.

“So…?” the woman prompted. “Get going.”

She shooed him and he was happy to oblige.

It took some time locating Arya’s room. The most obvious place—Lord and Lady Starks’ old quarters—had been heavily damaged in the fire. As had most of the rooms on that floor. In the end, he found her in the Broken Tower, and only then by following the sounds of crying as it echoed off the ancient stones. He was sure he’d never heard anyone cry like that, not even Catelyn after they’d found Bran’s broken body or Bran after he’d woken up in that same broken body.

There were two guards posted outside the door. It appeared Arya truly had become a prisoner in her own home. Theon didn’t recognize them and they didn’t recognize him, more focused on the tray in his hands.

“Lord Bolton told me Lady Arya is taking her meals in her room,” he parroted the kitchen wench’s word.

“Good luck with that,” one guard said. “Bitch hasn’t stopped crying long enough to eat in three days.”

The other guard laughed.

Theon straightened his shoulders. “You will be careful how you address your lord’s wife.” Why did he care about how they addressed her? _Principle_ , he told himself. _There’s a distinct and dangerous lack of respect among these people_. “Shall I inform Lord Bolton that you’ve been speaking of your new lady this way?”

“Just go in and feed the bitch,” the same guard said, not at all intimidated. “And be quick about it.”

The other guard unlocked the door. The sound of weeping grew louder. Theon hesitated to go in, almost afraid of what he’d find.

“Lady Arya,” he called before venturing in.

The room was dark, save for a small fire. A small figure on the bed flinched away from the light he brought with him.

“Lady Arya.” He set the tray down on the table in front of the hearth and went to the figure, keenly aware that the guards were watching him. He lowered his voice. “You don’t need to be afraid. It’s me, Theon. Theon Greyjoy.”

“Theon?” a thin voice said. The covers receded to reveal a round face among a tangle of brown hair. More hair than Arya had had last time he’d seen her.

Theon blinked. He recognized that face, but it took him a moment. “Is that…Jeyne? Sansa’s friend, Jeyne Poole?”

The girl shook her head, her too-wide eyes nearly popping from her skull. “No, no, I’m Arya. Please, I _know_ my name, I promise.”

“Shh, Jeyne, it’s okay.” He urged her to remain silent with a finger to his lips. “Robb sent me.”

She sobbed.

“What’s going on in there?” one of the guards demanded.

Theon whirled on them and gave them his best contemptuous glare. “You’re frightening Lady Arya. She says she won’t eat with you watching.”

“She’s got ten minutes!” the guard hollered. The door was slammed and they were plunged into near darkness. The fire crackled, but it provided little light and little warmth.

“Tell me what happened, Jeyne. Where’s Arya?”

“Not here. She was never here. It’s been me this whole time.”

Somehow, between sobs, she managed to tell the story of how she’d been captured at Kings Landing when Ned had been arrested, how she’d been sent to “study” at one of Littlefinger’s brothels. Just recently, she’d been handed over to Roose Bolton, who’d then taken her by ship up the coast and to the Dreadfort. She only stutteringly got out details about the wedding, how, in an audience of the Starks’ former allies, nobody had said a word as she’d been married off to the newly legitimized Ramsay Bolton.

“He’s a monster,” she said. “He…and he made me…the dogs…” She broke down and would say no more.

Not that Theon needed to hear more. He could see evidence of her husband’s “affections,” bruises and bite marks on pale skin. It was shameful; it was disgusting. Raiders on the Iron Islands didn’t treat their _salt wives_ this way, let alone their true, legitimate wives.

“Robb sent me to get Arya Stark,” he said. “And since you _are_ Arya Stark, that simply means I need to get _you_ out of here.”

She sniffled. “How?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll find a way. I’m not alone. The Manderlys still pledge loyalty to the Starks, now that they know Robb is still alive. We’ll—”

The door creaked opened.

“One more minute,” Theon entreated.

“Who the fuck are you?” a new voice said. New, yet somehow familiar. It did not belong to either of the guards.

Jeyne cowered under her covers. “That’s him,” she whispered.

The hairs on the back of Theon’s neck stood on end. He jumped to his feet and hurried to collect the tray, evidence that he was a harmless servant passing through. “Forgive me, my lord. I was only bringing the lady her meal.”

Ramsay Bolton was a hulking form, big and thick and as dark as a shadow standing in the doorway. “On my father’s orders, no doubt.”

“Yes, my lord.” Theon tried to shuffle out the door, but Ramsay blocked the way effortlessly. He grabbed the collar of Theon’s shirt and yanked him forward. The tray clattered to the ground.

“ _I_ am the Lord of Winterfell, not my father. You obey—”

He stopped abruptly, pale eyes going wide. Pale eyes that Theon had seen before. Recognition struck them both at the same time.

“Greyjoy?”

“Reek?”


	10. Chapter 10

“Lord Greyjoy, what a surprise.” Reek—Ramsay Bolton?—pinned Theon against the wall, holding him there with his forearm. “I certainly didn’t expect to find _you_ here. Serving my lady wife like a common kitchen slut, no less. A bit low for the Prince of Winterfell, eh?”

Theon couldn’t respond. The sharp bone in Ramsay’s arm was pressed his throat, pinching his windpipe closed.

“I was so sad to see you run off earlier. I had so many _plans_ for you, Lord Greyjoy. We were going to have so much _fun_ together.”

Theon kicked out with weak legs, but he was already feeling the world going hazy. Ramsay just laughed at the attempt. It was Reek’s laugh. All that time…

“Last I heard,” he went on, “you were Robb Stark’s prisoner. I assumed you died at the Twins, but the fact that you’re here means my father was right. Robb Stark escaped, and now he’s sent his little bitch to retrieve his sister.”

He leaned in close and licked a long stripe up Theon’s neck. Theon shuddered.

“I’m glad you’re not dead, Lord Greyjoy. You’ll enjoy being _my_ bitch.”

The world was growing dark, but Theon fought to remain conscious.

“I’ll bet Robb St—argh!”

He dropped Theon. Air came rushing in, painful. He choked and gasped while Ramsay howled and yanked the dinner knife from his side. He turned, frothing at the mouth like a mad dog, to Jeyne, who stood like a little white-clad waif, frozen in terror. Ramsay looked from her to the knife, as if he couldn’t believe she’d actually stabbed him. She looked like _she_ couldn’t believe it either.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” He advanced. “I’m going to cut off your arms and legs and leave you as a torso to be fucked.”

She screamed and ran for the bed, looking for anywhere to hide. Ramsay followed, knife raised.

But Theon had his own knife—a dagger, really—stashed in his boot. As if he’d come unarmed into the midst of a family’s whose words were, “Our knives are sharp.” He stood, still coughing, and grabbed the hilt of his blade. Ramsay had his back turned. It was too easy.

Like watching someone else control his body, he grabbed Ramsay’s mass of greasy hair, yanked his head back, and, without hesitating, drew his knife across his throat. Just like he’d watched this man do to two young boys. Watched and done nothing.

Ramsay didn’t even scream. He tried to swing around, but the damage was already done. He fell over, gurgling.

Theon felt numb. He hadn’t come here expecting to kill Reek, let alone Ramsay Bolton. Whatever his name was or had been, he lay twitching on the floor now, a pool of blood seeping along the cracks in the stones. Theon took a step back to keep his boots from getting dirty.

When Ramsay stopped moving, Jeyne edged near the body. “Is he dead?”

“Writhing in all seven hells as we speak.”

With a small cry, she lunged forward and grabbed the dinner knife out of Ramsay’s limp hand. She raised it up and brought it down on the dead man’s prick, getting four good stabs in before the blade hit bone and snapped.

Her painful sobbing brought him back to the moment. This was not good.

Theon stood reeling and looked to the doors.

The broken knife fell from Jeyne’s hands. “He probably dismissed the guards,” she said dispassionately.

Which was why nobody had come running to kill them yet.

“We need to get out of here,” he said. They couldn’t wait to be found, but he couldn’t take a girl in a blood-stained dressed outside. They’d be stopped immediately.

He looked at Jeyne, kneeling in a pool of blood, hair obscuring her face. He thought of the real Arya, how she’d escaped Kings Landing. He knelt beside Jeyne and cleaned his dagger on the hem of Ramsay’s cloak. “Jeyne, I need to cut your hair.”

“Why?”

“Because you need to be a boy for a while.”

 

***

 

Ramsay’s clothes were too large for her tiny frame, so Theon gave her his rags for a better fit and took a set of Ramsay’s plainest clothes for himself. Ramsay had been a large man, but the difference was less noticeable on Theon than it would have been on Jeyne.

He took her from the Broken Tower, holding her close with his arm over her. They made it down the steps and out into the courtyard. Snowflakes had begun to fall. Winter had come.

The Manderly man who’s promised Theon he’d be waiting by the stables had kept his word. Silently, he brought them a horse and helped Jeyne up after Theon with a courteous, “Lady Arya.”

“She’s not Lady Arya,” Theon said, bringing the horse around. “Lord Bolton has lied to your lord, though I suspect Lord Manderly already knows.”

“We stand with the Starks,” the man answered. “May the Seven grant you swift passage.”

Theon resisted the urge to say, “Piss on the Seven. Piss on the old gods and the new, and the Lord of Light and the Drowned God. Fuck them all. They’ve got nothing to do with it.” Instead he thanked the man and rode off.

They started at a leisurely pace so as not to attract attention. All the while, Jeyne huddled in front of him, biting on her knuckles to keep from crying. When they reached the edge of the Wolfswood, Theon urged the horse into the fastest gallop it could manage with its two riders. It was a five-day journey to Deepwood Motte, and the snow had started falling thickly.


	11. Interlude 4

It was difficult to tell who Petyr was more surprised to see: Catelyn Stark or Sandor Clegane. The face that so seldom gave anything away was not quite so secretive when the gates opened and he walked in to find the both of them, plus Lysa, waiting for him.

Catelyn might have laughed, except then Sansa was right behind him. Her hair had been dyed, but that wasn’t enough to fool a mother. She ran forward and so did Sansa, and the two of them met in the middle, hugging fiercely. In a matter of moments, her shoulder was wet with Sansa’s tears. “They told me…they said…”

“What did I tell you, Cat?” Lysa said, the picture of vindicated dignity. “Petyr was just getting your daughter to safety. He has our family’s best interests at heart, especially since everyone thought you were…you know.”

“Cat.” Petyr’s mask was back in place, his smile in place. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you alive.”

“Yes.” Catelyn pulled away from Sansa just long enough to give him a look to let him know she knew what he was really about. “Thank you for rescuing my daughter, Lord Baelish. How can I thank you for your selfless act?”

“Actually—”

Clegane stepped forward with a fierce scowl on his countenance. Petyr took a step back.

“No thanks are needed, Cat. I am, as always, your servant.”

“But you’re more than that, aren’t you?” For a second he looked hopeful. Then Catelyn stood and put herself between him and Sansa, and he looked worried, nervous even. “We’re to be brother and sister.”

Now he looked confused.

“Lysa was just telling me of your plan to wed. Congratulations, Petyr, on finally taking a wife. You’ve always been like a little brother to me, and now so shall you be in the eyes of the Seven.”

“Cat—”

“Unfortunately, we cannot stay for the ceremony. My son is still fighting a war, after all.” She nodded to Clegane. “Are you ready to go, ser?”

“Not a fuckin’ ser,” he grumbled but led the way, muscling past Petyr.

They left him standing there as Lysa threw herself on him with a girlish, high-pitched squeal. “Oh, Petyr, I’m so sorry I ever doubted you, thinking you were bringing another woman into our home. Of course you’re a good husband, a loyal, honorable husband. Let me get the septon in here now. We can be wed right this instant. Oh, my _good_ , _loyal_ , _honorable_ husband…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that Littlefinger deserves much, much worse for everything he's done, but I like to think that, without Sansa there, Lysa goes full on Annie Wilkes on his ass.


	12. Chapter 12

“Ah, there’s my lord husband.”

Robb balked. He’d just walked into the room and already Asha had caught him off guard.

“Excuse me?”

She turned from where she’d been watching out the window. He would often come into a room to find her looking out towards the sea with a wistful look on her face. It was clear she’d rather be on the water. Did she even _want_ to carve a portion of the North for herself? The Ironborn at Moat Cailin had no interest in holding anything too far from the shore, after all.

“Congratulations, Stark,” she said. “You’ll be getting what you wanted all along. Our Houses will be joined.”

That brought him up short. “They will?”

She had her hands clasped behind her back as she regarded him.

“What made you change your mind?”

“A cup of moon tea.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?” he repeated.

“It’s been difficult to get here, and women have needs just like men do.” She cocked her head, seeing he still didn’t get it. “I’m with child.”

Three for three, he wasn’t sure how to respond. “Oh, well…that’s—that’s good news.”

“It’s far from good news.”

“Who, uh…the father…?”

“Why, _you_ are, of course.”

“Me? But I—we never—”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t you see? We can turn this in our favor, Stark. I _could_ give birth to another bastard Pyke, or I _could_ give birth to Robb Stark’s heir.”

“That’s—I can’t—”

“He’ll have no interest in Winterfell, I assure you. But a bastard cannot hope to inherit the Iron Islands.” She went back to looking out the window. “Our second son can have Winterfell. Or daughter, for that matter. We’re going to make our _own_ type of union, Stark. No exchanging cloaks, no changing names. Just a man and a woman, two Houses, and however many children we decide to have, though I suggest at least one legitimate heir.”

“Lady Asha—”

“You’ll be Lord of Winterfell, I’ll be Queen of the Iron Islands. You’ll be my rock husband. I’ll keep my ‘salt husbands’ and you can keep yours.”

“I don’t have sal—”

“You think I don’t know that you’re buggering my brother?”

Robb clamped his jaw shut.

“I’m not angry,” she said, finally coming to stand before him. She had a smile very similar to Theon’s, he realized, all cockiness and lechery. “If anything, I’m glad. He’s finally learning to not care what others think of him. And besides, this way he won’t create any little Theons to challenge my reign.” She shifted her weight to one hip, looking as confident and self-assured as Theon ever had when they were younger. “We can make this work for us, Stark. The Islanders may yet choose me over my uncle if they realize I’m carrying Balon Greyjoy’s bloodline.”

“If you _are_ with child, I can’t allow you to come with us when we take the Islands.”

She scoffed. “I’d like to see you try to stop me. Besides, I’m _not_ pregnant. Not yet. I won’t _be_ pregnant,” she said with emphasis, “until after our wedding, which won’t be until after the Driftwood Crown has been put on my head. So, what do you say, Stark?” She thrust out her hand. “Accord?”

Join their Houses together? Marry Asha Greyjoy? It was as good as he could have planned. A conventional union would be preferable…but then again, maybe not. Maybe this _could_ work for them.

He took her hand hesitantly, unused to shaking hands with a woman. She had a strong grip.

“Accord.”

 

***

 

A horse appeared on the road the next day carrying a man and a child—Theon and Arya. Robb rode out to meet them. He was overcome with relief to see Theon, but the face that peered out at him from behind awkwardly shorn bangs was not his sister.

“The Boltons never had her,” Theon explained before Robb could even ask. “Bolton’s bastard is dead. The Manderlys have declared open revolt on the Boltons. We escaped while we could.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re safe at any rate.” He clasped Theon’s hand from across his horse and could have easily planted a kiss on his friend’s lips if they’d been alone. “And Jeyne, of course you have my protection.”

She nodded in silent gratitude. She was not the happy girl she’d been when she’d left with his father heading south. Her hollow face made him fear for Sansa’s fate.

“Come in,” he said, turning his horse around to lead them back. “There’s big news to tell you. You and I are going to be true brothers.”

Theon lifted an eyebrow.

“Asha has agreed to marry me.” _Or I’ve agreed to marry Asha. I’m not entirely sure which._

“Really? You got her to change her mind?” Theon asked incredulously. “How did you manage that?”

“It’s no matter.” Robb waved it off for now. “Suffice to say, she finally saw reason. Our Houses are to be united. And, as I said, you and I are going to be brothers at last.”

For some reason, Theon blushed at that. He was silent for several seconds. “Does that mean…uh, must we _love_ each other as brothers?” It was odd to hear him speak so delicately about sex, but from the way Jeyne cocked her head, Robb could see why.

Robb laughed and shook his head. “We’re going to make our _own_ type of union, Greyjoy.”

Together, they rode into the keep.

 

***

 

Robb was cuddly that night, even more so than usual, after Theon finished telling him all that had happened. “I almost wish you hadn’t killed the bastard,” he said, arms around Theon’s shoulders, face buried in the crook of his neck. “I’d have liked to kill him myself for even _thinking_ of touching you.”

Theon laughed at that.

Robb sat up abruptly, causing the mattress to bounce. Theon enjoyed having a real bed to sleep in after his escape from Winterfell. He’d barely slept at all on the ride here—Jeyne certainly hadn’t—and the nights had been very cold. The comfort of something soft and warm was welcome; the bed was nice too.

“Don’t laugh,” Robb said. “You don’t know what I saw that night, in my dream. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“I know what he was capable of,” Theon said, running his fingers through Robb’s red tresses, playing with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. “I saw for myself. He was the one who killed the miller’s boys. Took a knife to their throats, like they were pigs.”

“He…Ramsay Bolton’s the one responsible for killing the miller boys? Not you?”

“He’s the one who killed them, but I’m the one responsible.” He sighed to show Robb how tired he was of making excuses for himself. “He suggested it, and when I was too cowardly to even do the thing itself, he offered to do it for me. And I let him.”

Robb seemed to understand, because he lowered his head back onto Theon’s chest.

“I did kill Mikken myself, though. And did an awful job of it.”

“Stop talking.”

“We really can’t keep ignoring this forever, Robb. Your men hate me. Rightfully so. And you keeping me so close to your side isn’t helping your cause.”

“I’ll keep whoever I want as my side. I’m King, and you’re my brother now. They’ll just have to learn to accept it.” His hands searched for hair on Theon’s chest long enough to grab. Theon remembered once, sometime after Robb had begun to sprout hair all over his own body, sitting in the springs and watching the younger boy marvel at his seeming lack of chest hair. Theon had told him it was because the Greyjoys had once lived in the sea, where hair only slowed you down, and Robb had actually believed it for a full year. The boy was too naive for his own good.

And it wasn’t just that the King continued to keep a known traitor by his side. It was _how close_ he continued to keep that same man. If Asha had been able to figure out their relationship, others would too. And maybe nobody would bat an eye at first, because this was war after all, and what was a discreet bit of buggery among men during war. But what if Robb’s plan actually succeeded? What if they broke from the south and years of peace followed? Would everyone look the other way then? Even now, Theon made sure to be back in the quarters Asha had provided for him so as not to be caught in the same bed as Robb come daylight.

“Stop worrying,” Robb said, and Theon realized he’d been silent for several moments now. “Your sister and I are getting married. Soon enough we’ll have a child to prove that our union is for real.”

“How do you feel about that? Raising another man’s bastard.”

Robb sighed. “I don’t like lying, but…if it will protect Lady Asha, then I will do it.”

It was a bit funny. Theon wondered if Robb would come to resent the bastard as much as Catelyn had come to resent Jon Snow. He hoped not, and somehow couldn’t see Robb resenting anyone. Asha didn’t deserve him. Hells, Theon didn’t deserve him. But somehow they both had him.

“Theon, are you…are you crying?”

“Shut up, Stark.”


	13. Interlude 5

Arya was tossing stones into the water when the bells started ringing. The noise startled her, and she drew Needle, though there was no one but the dock loaders down here at night. The harbor was dead at night. But no, at a second glance, there _was_ someone else in the shadows. A child, as first glance, but Arya knew better. She’d been watching this man for the past few weeks, including his disastrous trial by combat, and knew his every movement.

So, the Imp was trying to escape his execution? That just meant she’d have to deal his death herself. One last name off her list.

He didn’t hear her creep up behind him until a cat knocked over a bin of old fish parts, the clanging causing him to turn straight towards her. She froze, half in the shadows, half out. Still, those mismatched eyes tracked her.

“Are you going to rob me or kill me or both?” he asked wearily.

“Just kill you, actually.” She came out of the shadows to be within striking distance. “I’m going to make a widow of my sister.”

“Your sis—?” His eyes widened. “You’re Arya Stark? Is this where you’ve been hiding this whole time?”

“No.”

“Well, let me tell you, Arya, you and I are brother and sister by marriage. So if you kill me now, you will be guilty of kinslaying. Which is appropriate considering I just murdered my own father.”

Arya let Needle dip. “You…murdered Tywin Lannister?”

“Oh, yes. Would you believe he does not, in fact, shit gold? Who knew?” He gave a helpless shrug. “I’ve committed patricide and _did_ plan on committing fratricide, but one mortal sin is enough for today, don’t you think?”

“You want to kill your own brother?”

“And sister. Small matter.”

“Cersei,” she breathed.

“I trust you have little love in your heart for our dear Queen. So, you can kill me now—and I _am_ just a little fish—or you can wait and bide and cast your net wide.”

“How? By letting you go?” Arya scoffed, then contemplated the situation. The man before her had escaped from the cells of the Red Keep. That was no mean feat. “Where are you going?”

“East. Across the Narrow Sea or beyond. To Pentos…or maybe Braavos.”

Arya felt for the coin in her pocket. “Would you take me with you?”

He looked surprised at that.

“I have coin to pay my way.”

He shrugged. “I’ve had worse travelling companions.”

“So have I,” she responded. Needle went back into her belt loop. “Why are you going east? What’s out there?”

Tyrion smiled. “Tell me, Arya. What have you heard about dragons?”


	14. Epilogue

Robb watched as the ship bearing his mother and one of his sisters eased into the harbor. There was still no word from Arya, save for a cryptic message that had arrived two days after the Battle of Pyke had been won: _Tell Mother I’m sorry and Theon that he’s safe so long as I’m in Braavos. I know we will meet again, Robb._

_What will I tell Mother?_ he worried as the boat laid anchor. She was already quite displeased with the idea of spending any sort of time on the Iron Islands, but Winterfell had still not been recaptured and was in disarray in any event. They would make do with the hospitality from his lady wife’s House for the time being.

Asha had warned that, although Euron Greyjoy had been disposed and was currently rotting in the dungeons beneath the castle at Pyke—even the Greyjoys were hesitant to become kinslayers—Victarion may yet come back for another try at the throne. Though she didn’t put any stock in this “dragon nonsense,” as she called it. She suggested they hasten the wedding, just in case.

A rowboat was lowered down from the ship, and Robb saw two heads of bright red hair among its crew. His heart soared. For the moment, everything was right. They’d taken Pyke, he’d forged an alliance with the Greyjoys, Roose Bolton was floundering with the loss of his son and heir, and Robb had his family by his side again.

Theon elbowed him in the ribs. “With all these redheads around, it’s beginning to feel like the old days, eh?”

“More color than these islands have seen for a long time, I’d wager,” Robb agreed.

“Is it true, by the way? Did your uncle end up marrying that Frey girl? The one who led us out of the Twins?”

“So Mother says. She also says it wasn’t her idea.”

“Probably the girl’s idea. She couldn’t have you, so she went for the next closest thing.”

“The next closest thing?”

Theon smiled. “Her loss, of course. Not all of us can be lucky enough to have the real Robb Stark, after all.”

“Consider yourself lucky, do you?”

“The luckiest.”

The rowboat carrying Catelyn, Sansa, and a number of other passengers came up alongside the dock, and a grizzled oarsman began helping the women and children up. Robb hurried to greet his mother and sister, but the first one off the boat was a toddler who took off running at full steam. The mother back on the boat called out, “Theon!” and Robb whipped around to grab the kid’s scruff before he could topple over the end of dock. The mother didn’t wait for her own help, instead crawling her way onto the pier and running towards Robb with a relieved expression on her face.

“Thank you, thank you, ser. He’s just learned to walk, y’see.”

Robb hefted the child into the woman’s arms. “Fine lad. Theon, was it?”

She nodded.

The oarsman was helping Catelyn up first.

“Common name on the Islands?”

The woman shrugged. “Named after his father.”

The oarsman took one of Sansa’s hands and Catelyn took the other. Together, they lifted her up and out of the boat. She was easily the most overdressed person for miles, though she didn’t preen the way the old Sansa would have. Right then, Robb wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms and promise her that no one would ever hurt her again.

He gave the woman a cordial nod. “Keep an eye on him, okay?” He nodded to the child before sidestepping her and taking the last few running steps to his sister.

Sansa squealed in surprise as he wrapped his hands around her waist, lifted her up, and swung her around several times, just like he had when she was a child. Her squealing turned to laughter then to tears, and by the time he set her down, she had her arms thrown over his neck and was sobbing into his chest. “They told me you were dead.”

“I almost was,” he said, stroking her hair. “Would you believe the daughter of the man who tried to have me killed was the one who saved us? Her and Theon, of course.”

“Theon?” she sniffled. “I’d like to thank them. Both of them.”

“You’ll meet Roslin later, I’m sure. Edmure’s taken her as a bride. Theon, though…” He turned and waved to where Theon had held back.

Theon wasn’t watching. Instead, he was shielding his face from the woman and her child, shoulders hunched. He knew her, it seemed, and was trying to go unnoticed in the most conspicuous way possible.

“One second,” Robb said, pulling away from Sansa. “I’ve got to go rescue Theon now.” He gave her a kiss on her hairline and then ran back to Theon’s side. “What’s the matter, Theon? Ghost of tumbles past come back to haunt you?”

“More than that,” he said, looking genuinely terrified.

And then the woman was looking straight at them, and her face split into a broad smile. “Prince Theon! I _knew_ you’d come back for me. I _knew_ you wouldn’t leave us here by ourselves.” She hurried over and clasped a hand on his shoulder. Theon jumped and grew several shades paler. “Prince Theon, I’d like you to meet my son, Theon. Theon Pyke.” She jostled the toddler in her arms. “Theon, this is your daddy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end...for now. Thanks to everyone for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Holy mangled timeline, Batman! Hints have been dropped to *someone* that I need new books to replace my old ones, but in the meantime, just call this Fanfic Snow, because it's basically a bastardization of book!canon and show!canon and half-remembered plots from both.


End file.
